Mess
by rubberbird
Summary: Sherlock/John. Jim makes Sherlock and John copulate at gunpoint for his own amusement. Slash.


A/N: Another one of those "Jim makes Sherlock and John get it on at gunpoint" stories. Yes. THAT OLD CHESTNUT. Smutty pointlessness.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Mess

"_What_?"

Jim smiled indulgently at John's incredulous expression. "You heard me, doctor." He scratched his neck offhandedly with the barrel of the pistol. "Or do I need to find something long and sharp to clean your ears out with?"

John blanched. With rage, not fear. It was forcing the air from his lungs, and making him hot and prickly all over.

"You sick-"

Sherlock laid a hand on John's arm. It was the first time he had moved since Jim had spoken. While Jim had been speaking, in his gentle, melodic lilt, Sherlock's eyes had been fixed on him, his arms limp beside him. John could only wonder what he was thinking, what he was deducing about the slimy criminal.

Jim pointed the gun at John's head. "Now, boys, if you'd first like to dispense of anything naughty you have hidden on your person."

Neither of them moved.

Jim rolled his eyes fondly. "The other option is me putting a bullet in the doctor's brain, of course."

A corroborating red dot appeared in the centre of John's forehead. His and Sherlock's eyes snapped towards the darkened balcony above. John thought vaguely of aiming a shot into the darkness, but he knew he'd be dead before he pulled the trigger.

Jim yawned affectedly. "I do have other appointments, boys, so if you'd be so kind..."

John moved first. He tore off his jacket and the gun from his holster, dropping it heavily onto the cement. "There," he spat.

Jim pouted at him, and then turned to Sherlock, keeping the weapon directed firmly at John. "You next, precious."

Sherlock gritted his teeth and dug a hand inside his coat, tossing his gun across the cement. It skittered away and hit the wall.

"Temper, temper." Jim lowered his own gun, and walked towards Sherlock, his eyes cold and mirthful. "You won't hold it against me if I don't take you on face value will you, my sweet?"

John stared at Sherlock's blank face, as the psychopath came within inches of him, his head tilted up towards his. He curled his hands into fists.

When Jim laid his hands on him, Sherlock let out a quick breath of surprise. Jim's lips flicked up into a brief smirk. Sherlock flushed. He forcefully kept eye-contact, even as Jim's hands starting sliding slowly down his torso in a crude mockery of a pat-down.

He slipped his hands underneath Sherlock's coat, his hands applying the slightest pressure as he moved them back up Sherlock's body. His fingers trailed over his nipples, partly hardened from the coldness of the concrete room, and he gave a deepening smirk.

Sherlock flicked his eyes towards John. John was paler than ever. His lips were white. His eyes were narrowed, and his teeth gritted with anger. The sniper's dot was dancing in the centre of his forehead.

Jim gave Sherlock's right nipple a hard pinch and he cried out in pain, his eyes snapping back towards him. The psychopath's reptilian eyes flashed. It was Sherlock's turn to smirk.

"Jealousy is such a bad look for you, Jim," he growled, as Jim's hands slid up his collarbones to rest on his shoulders. They looked like they were about to embark on some twisted slow-dance.

Jim sneered. "I could say the same about you and weakness, _Sherlock_." He wrapped his fingers around his throat. Sherlock choked.

John gave a bodily jerk, barely keeping himself from making a fatal attempt at moving.

"Stay where you are," Sherlock barked.

"Always so concerned with your pet's safety. How sweet," Jim cooed, his eyes cold. "Though I have to agree that he would be rather less appealing with a hole through his face." Jim's hackles rose, as though that was exactly what he would like to see.

Sherlock stared impassively at him. "What now, Jim?" He looked towards John again. John stared hard back at them, his body quivering with the need to move.

Jim scoffed and backed away, taking his hand from Sherlock's neck. Sherlock raised an eyebrow coolly at him. "Problem?"

Jim quirked one eyebrow back at him. "Alright, boys. Foreplay's over." He raised his gun again, this time at John's chest. "I think it's time for you to show darling Sherly how you really feel about him, Johnny-boy."

Neither men moved. John swallowed thickly.

Jim rolled his eyes with exaggeration. "Or else I'll shoot you both in the head," he said, with a mocking jiggle of his head. "Remember?" He slapped his forehead. "Not too bright under pressure, are you?"

Sherlock looked at Jim imperiously, though his cheeks had betrayed a gentle blush. John noticed that the detective's back was suddenly rigid.

Jim clearly saw it too. "You're a _virgin_, aren't you, darling?"

Sherlock said nothing.

Jim smiled with relish, and leant out to press a finger to Sherlock's mouth. "I would offer myself up to break you in properly of course, but..." He gestured to his impeccable suit. "Virgins always make such a mess."

Sherlock made a sound between a scoff and a snarl.

John looked at him, and then at Jim. "Can I move? You have permission to blow my brains out if I try anything funny."

Jim nodded with a smirk. "You learn surprisingly quickly, Doctor Watson." He jabbed his gun at Sherlock. "Okay. Sort him out, and don't take all day about it."

John walked up to Sherlock. He touched the man's sleeve. Sherlock looked at him, his expression blank. "You've never... um, done this?" he said delicately.

Sherlock's face flushed very, very faintly darker. He shook his head with forceful derision. "No. Of course not. Why would I engage in anything so utterly pointless?"

Jim gave a delighted snort behind them.

John looked at him for a minute, wondering how terrified the detective would have to be to cover it up so poorly and unconvincingly. "We don't have to-"

"Yes. Yes, we do," Sherlock said sharply. "Unless you'd prefer_ death_ over a little awkwardness."

John stared at him, and then nodded. He turned to look at Jim. "Where?"

Jim was examining his nails. "Hm?" he said, looking up disinterestedly. "Oh. The floor, a wall." He rolled his eyes. "Be creative, boys. I can't do _everything_ for you."

John turned his back on him. "The wall," he said firmly to Sherlock. He was clutching at straws and could only think that maybe the added support would make the process marginally less uncomfortable for him.

Sherlock looked him in the eye and nodded slowly. John walked past him to the wall, gesturing encouragingly to Sherlock to follow. He felt like he was coaxing a reluctant child to eat their vegetables, but he was too focused on what they needed to do to dwell on the horribleness and humiliation of their situation.

Sherlock followed him and stood awkwardly in front of him, suddenly looking very unlike the artful man John was familiar with. "John." John looked at his face. Sherlock's features were taut; his eyes were very sharp and bright, with what John abruptly realised was sheer panic.

John was conscious of Jim's watchful and sneering figure behind him, of the gun directed at the back of his head, but he forced himself to block it out of his mind. He did it the way Sherlock had taught him. There was nothing and no one in the room, just him and Sherlock. He forced himself to notice everything about Sherlock: the freckles along his right collarbone, slightly exposed by his shirt, the way his uncombed hair caught the gloomy light above them, the millimetre space between his parted lips, the shifting shades of green and silver and blue in his ridiculous eyes. He saw everything.

He touched Sherlock's jaw very gently. The taller man jerked like John had slapped him, but didn't pull away. "I'll be very careful," he said, looking directly into Sherlock's eyes, hoping he would understand him.

Sherlock watched him for a few long minutes, his cheeks still red. Finally, he gave a very slight incline of his head.

There was the sound of Jim's shoe tapping hard on the concrete; it echoed around the cell. "This is all _very_ touching." He yawned pointedly. There was the sound of something hitting his thigh, the sound of the gun hitting his thigh. He left the obvious threat hanging in the cold air of the cell.

"I'm going to undress you now," John said, ignoring him. "Just keep your eyes on me."

Sherlock didn't reply or nod, but John knew he understood. He touched the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. When Sherlock didn't shove him away, he took heart and began to undo them one by one, quickly and more nimbly than he thought possible in his frazzled state.

Sherlock just watched him, blinking slowly, in an almost doleful fashion. And then his gaze drifted past John to where he knew the murderer stood watching them, smirking at their embarrassment and discomfort, revelling in their distress.

Sherlock's features hardened. Tentatively, but with purpose, he pushed John's coat off of his shoulders, and John let him tug it away and to the floor.

John finished undoing Sherlock's shirt and moved a hand to Sherlock's trousers, mechanical in his movements. Sherlock had faltered after removing John's coat. His hands were resting on both of John's shoulders.

He stared straight ahead, allowing John to unbutton and unzip him. John concentrated on his breathing, trying fruitlessly not to brush against Sherlock's crotch.

John tugged open the fly to reveal Sherlock's underwear low on his hips. There was a trail of black hair from his navel downwards, wiry and sparse. Almost without thinking, John grazed his fingers down it. Sherlock's breath quickened.

"Alright, boys," came Jim's voice, full of spiteful amusement. "Enough blundering. You clearly need some of daddy's guidance. Johnny, my dear, be so kind as to push Sherlock against the wall a little _harder_, would you? That would be a lovely start."

John hesitated, staring at Sherlock's strained expression.

"Might I remind you, _dear_, that the back of your head makes just as lovely a target as the front of it."

Grimacing to himself, John pushed Sherlock very gently against the concrete wall behind him. The detective flattened himself against it, flattening his hands beside him. If John hadn't been sick with the whole situation he would have found the sight terribly arousing.

He slid his fingers inside the band of Sherlock's jeans, and Sherlock arched his back, eyes widening.

"Sorry," John said clumsily, retracting them.

"No. It's fine," Sherlock replied, with a forced smile. "Just a bit... cold."

"Now, now. Let's not jump the gun, _Doctor_," Jim remarked from behind him. His footsteps echoed around them; his small, dark figure appeared out of the left of John's peripheral vision. He pointedly did not look at him. "It's hard though, isn't it, darling?" He could hear a mocking pout to Jim's voice. He gritted his teeth. "When you've been fantasising about this for _so long_. Having him, deflowering him, being the first to _fuck _that poor, cold body."

John couldn't stop himself. He looked at him with loathing, his cheeks becoming hot.

"How are we going to do this?" Sherlock asked impatiently, drawing John's attention back to him.

"_So_ glad you asked, sweet thing," Jim said, twirling the gun around on his right index finger. "I was thinking it would be _très_ romantic to have you gazing into each other's eyes while you got nicely fucked- but I think what John really wants is to bend you over, and who am I to deny him?"

"Go fuck yourself," John flung at him.

Jim tittered. "Maybe later. If you're lucky, I might let you watch."

Sherlock ignored both of them and yanked down his jeans. For a moment, both John and Jim were staring at him, and the sight of his bare, white thighs with almost the identical stunned expression. And then both of them seemed to remember where they were.

Jim made a spinning motion with his finger. "Round you go, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him coolly and then turned to face the wall, pressing his palms flat into it. John stood uncomfortably behind him, staring and biting his lip. He was still in his trousers, and the crotch was beginning to become uncomfortably tight. He couldn't quite forgive himself for the rapidity of his arousal. It seemed wrong on so many levels. Jim was forcing them to do this. This _wasn't _what Sherlock wanted. He needed to remember that.

He touched Sherlock's waist, and the skin flinched under his cold fingers. "Sorry," he mumbled, feeling foolish. "You'll need to bend... um, over a little more."

Sherlock faltered, struggling to work his way down the wall, clearly uneasy about presenting himself in such a fashion with Jim and his sniper behind him.

"That's right, darling," Jim cooed. "Bend over for daddy. Oh, he is so _obedient_ like this, isn't he, Doctor?" he added to John. "Next time I need to bring a little gag I think. I think he'd look ravishing, all sticky with his own saliva. Don't you, Doctor?"

John exhaled sharply through his nose, tilting his head away from Jim to hide the fierce flush his words had caused. "Shut up, you sick bastard."

Jim gave a trilling laugh. Sherlock tutted from his position bent over against the wall.

"Get on with it, John. Please." His voice was frail.

John dug his thumbs into his jeans and yanked them down. Without waiting for embarrassment to set in, he did the same to his underwear. The cold air slapped his exposed lower half painfully.

He fingered Sherlock's underwear. Sherlock nodded his head against the wall. "Now. Please."

Though he was very nearly overcome with the sense that he was humiliating his friend, he pulled it down, quickly. He kept his eyes up, while Jim helped himself to a long look at Sherlock's shame, smirking delightedly to himself.

"Have you ever done this before?" Sherlock said in a muffled voice, resting his face on his arm.

John was somehow grateful for the tone he was using, like Jim wasn't even in the room. It helped make it easier. Something Jim no doubt realised, for he interjected forcefully:

"It's not hard. Animals do it on a daily basis. Even the pet, I'm sure, will be able to work out the mechanics."

John just looked at him. "There's nothing to use as lubrication."

"Stick your fingers in your mouth, Doctor. You're full of lubrication. You're really just a walking sack of it. Blood, saliva, mucus. It's all rather ideal for this. Take your pick."

John looked at him with disgust and then turned back to Sherlock. His body was trembling now, though it could very likely have been from the cold. John pressed his body against Sherlock's, hoping he would recognise the inept act of comfort for what it was.

John covered two of his fingers in saliva. He coated them fully, making them as wet and thick with it as he could. It was so far from ideal, but it was better than nothing.

Sherlock had clenched his arse tight, out of nerves or because of the cold, and John had to urge him to spread his thighs and let John pry him apart. Sherlock was now breathing in short, hard spurts and his nails were buried between the slabs in the wall.

"It's alright," John said softly. "It's all fine. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Depending of course on whether the doctor can keep from pounding into you like a horny schoolboy," Jim supplied in a bored tone. "Oh, and you might bleed too."

John ignored him, and gently touched Sherlock's hip with one hand. "You won't bleed," he said in a low voice. "I'll be very, very careful."

And with that, he slid his fingers inside of Sherlock.

Sherlock's choked in shock and alarm, and he clawed at the wall. All at once, he lost his composure, his indifference and was wild with terror.

"N-no- No! John, stop! I ca... can't-"

John hadn't ever heard him speak with such a lack of control. He hadn't ever seen him so frightened. He quickly extracted his fingers.

Sherlock was hunched over, panting and sobbing quietly. "I can't. I can't."

Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Jim watching Sherlock intensely, but he didn't look to see what his expression was.

John longed to look at Sherlock, but he didn't dare try and change their positions. "Did I hurt you?"

Sherlock shook his head, dark waves bouncing from side to side. "I just don't... I just can't-" He broke off again, his breaths more like soft, almost silent whimpers.

"It's me, Sherlock," John said gently. "John. Your best mate. Trust me."

He reached a hand towards Sherlock's hair. He paused for a second, and then gently touched it. Sherlock didn't move, but his breathing was quieter after a few seconds.

John straightened up. He wet his fingers again. He could taste Sherlock on his skin, and it went straight to his head and his crotch. He was hard. He knew Sherlock wasn't. Sherlock was embarrassed, terrified, distressed. The last thing on his mind was arousal.

A thought came to John then. Before pushing his fingers back inside of him, he moved his free hand around to touch Sherlock's flaccid prick. Sherlock jolted in surprise, but didn't resist when John wrapped a hand around him and began gently massaging him, with the gentlest, most teasing of touches.

John waited until he felt Sherlock grow the tiniest bit more relaxed against him, and then ventured to probe inside of him again.

Sherlock's breath hitched, his back arched, but he didn't cry out. His hands were tense and gnarled on the wall, but when John began to move his fingers in and out of him, gently and carefully, in time with the strokes to his now hardening cock, he seemed to gradually lose some of his nervous energy, though his breaths still shuddered every so often.

"That's enough. Fuck him, and get it over with."

John jumped. It seemed incredible, but he had almost forgotten that Jim was in the room.

He looked at the psychopath. His porcelain face was tinged with pink, and his eyes were darkened and sharp. It seemed to John that his game hadn't turned out quite as amusing as he had thought, but he was far too proud- and deranged to let them out of it now. Even if the sight of John caressing and soothing Sherlock had brought him ever, _ever _so close to putting a bullet in the doctor's brain right there and then.

He had to see it out to its natural conclusion.

John retracted his fingers, but kept massaging and rubbing Sherlock in smooth, gentle strokes. He could feel he was almost fully hard now.

John covered his own cock in as liberal a coat of saliva as he could manage. His mouth was dry, and didn't seem to want to give up its moisture.

As soon as he had done that, he pressed the head of his cock to Sherlock's exposed hole so that the wetness didn't dry up immediately. Sherlock tensed up.

"Okay. I'm going to... to do it now," John said clumsily. His voice sounded strained.

Sherlock nodded once, very slowly, and that was all the confirmation John needed. He pushed inside of him with a soft groan.

Sherlock bucked against him wildly, seeming to become panicked all over again. John quickened his ministrations to Sherlock's cock, and brought his free arm around Sherlock's torso, giving him a tight squeeze. "It's fine. It's all fine." He tried to use a soothing tone, but his voice came out like a choke. The sensation of being deep inside of Sherlock was intoxicatingly pleasurable. He didn't want to let himself enjoy it, but his body had no notion of decency.

From his left he could hear Jim's breathing, shallow and forceful.

"Does it hurt?" John's voice was breathless.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, seeming to freeze up completely. "No," he said finally, his voice steady. "No, keep going."

John barely needed an invitation to. The tightness around his prick was almost driving him to distraction. He kept his thrusts smooth and slow and steady, though his body was burning and begging just to pound into Sherlock again and again. Somehow, he found the control to keep from fucking Sherlock raw.

He rubbed Sherlock's cock faster, until he could hear the detective panting furiously. He was humping his hand without restraint and clearly desperately close. It only took a couple more strokes for him to come. He gave a strangled sob, thrusting into John's hand hard and coating it with his seed.

John stopped moving, gasping for air. Sherlock was resting heavily against the wall, sucking in hollow breaths.

"I-I'm sorry," he panted. "So... so quick-"

"It's okay," John said. "It's fine."

"Keep fucking him, Doctor," came Jim's voice, no longer teasing, but choked with antipathy. "I don't think I said you could stop."

John felt wretched as he returned to thrusting inside of Sherlock. It felt unbelievably good, but incredibly wrong to fuck Sherlock when he was tired and soft.

"Touch his nipples," Jim barked. John heard him take an impatient step towards them. "Now."

John of course did as he was told, groping around Sherlock's body with his fingertips. He rolled the right one around under his fingers, squeezing it gently, and rubbing it with his palm. Sherlock seemed to like it, his back was flexing up and down, and his breathing was increasing again.

"Hit his prostate," Jim spat.

Jim's anger was somehow less terrible than his mockery, and John did as he was told without much thought, altering his angle experimentally. He knew he had located Sherlock's prostate when he gave a sudden, loud moan, like nothing else he had uttered that night.

"Ohhh, Jo-John-" His body writhed.

"Again," Jim said softly.

John tried the same angle again, and once again Sherlock moaned. He had gone a little floppy underneath John, as though he were in danger of sliding down the wall.

Jim laughed, and it rang like a bell around the cement walls. John was horrified to hear how genuine it sounded.

"And again, and again, and again," Jim sang, stepping closer to them. He ran the gun up Sherlock's thigh slowly. John watched it, feeling dazed. "Come on, lover boy. You can't be tiring yet."

John thrust again, and Sherlock threw his head back with something close to a sob. Jim pouted and threaded his fingers through his hair. John felt a sickly wave of hatred that almost eclipsed the pleasure.

"Oh, yes, my sweet. It feels good, doesn't it?" He slid a hand under Sherlock's torso and began to play with his left nipple the way John was going with his right. Except Jim was far less gentle. He squeezed and pressed it with aggressive intent. "Does that feel good?" He was almost hissing into Sherlock's ear, and it sickened John. "Tell daddy, tell daddy how it _feels _to be played with like this. Do you want to die? Is it just _too much_?"

Sherlock could only whimper in response, writhing against the clashing sensations of Jim's cruel pinches and John's gentle strokes.

"Now, wrap your hand around his cock," Jim said, looking directly at John with glittering eyes.

John didn't want to. He knew what Jim was trying to do. He wanted to overstimulate Sherlock. With Sherlock's inexperienced body it wouldn't be difficult at all, and he was already twisting and moaning like a man out of his wits.

But John knew he couldn't stop now. He didn't know if he was in his own right mind at that moment.

He wrapped his hand back around Sherlock's prick. It was half-hard, hot and wet. It only took a few strokes, and rocks of John's hips to get Sherlock fully hard again, and positively crying in despair at the sensations he was being forced to feel.

"No- No- Please," he moaned, tossing his head. "I can't- Oh God. Oh _God_."

"It's okay, it's okay," John panted in useless unison. "You're okay."

Jim sniggered. "Oh, his face, doctor. If you could see it. He's utterly lost. You could do anything, any dirty, little thing, and he'd take it like a whore."

John couldn't reply. He was fucking Sherlock harder than he had ever intended to. He was drunk on Sherlock's sobs, and helpless moans. He was wanking Sherlock clumsily, barely keeping any discernible rhythm.

Beside him, Jim pressed his mouth right against Sherlock's exposed ear. It sent shockwaves of fury through John. Jim said something, so low John couldn't hear it. He gave Sherlock's nipple a hard, cruel twist, and the detective lost control of himself.

He let out a perfect scream of anguish. John followed like he was tumbling after him off a cliff. His orgasm tore through him intensely, leaving him momentarily insensible to anything but the sounds Sherlock was making.

When he'd ridden out every last drop of his climax, he collapsed against Sherlock, who in turn collapsed against the wall. The two of them were a messy, painful tangle of filthy, sweaty limbs.

John slid down to rest his back against the wall, breathing like he would never get enough oxygen into his lungs ever again. Sherlock was crumpled beside him, sobbing, and quivering.

Jim backed away, his face painted with a malicious smile. "Oh, dear me. Don't feel _too_ bad, John. We all turn into such _animals_ when we're in bed." His eyes were bright. "No hard feelings. I'm sure Sherlock will forgive you for promising all those lovely, sweet things_,_ and then proceeding to fuck him like a rent boy in a public toilet."

John couldn't do anything but stare at him and wallow in his hatred. He was too tired to move. His head was spinning.

Sherlock seemed coherent enough now. His eyes were wet. His mouth was bleeding from where he had accidentally bitten himself, and he was splotchy all over. John wanted terribly to hold him, but he didn't dare give himself the privilege.

"Well, boys," Jim adjusted his wristwatch, and shot a look over his shoulder to the shadowy recesses of the balcony to where his unseen friend lurked, "it's been a real treat. But duty calls." He made a face good-naturedly.

"Bastard," John spat.

Jim winked at him. "Do take care of yourself, won't you, Doctor Watson? Maybe get some Lanacane on that for Sherlock. If he lets you lay your hands on him ever again, that is." He smirked at Sherlock's silent figure. "_Laters_."

He was swallowed into the darkness at the far corner of the room. They heard the click of a door opening, and then the snap of it closing again. Then silence.

"Sherlock." John's voice trembled. "I'm so, so sorry-"

Sherlock straightened up from the wall, dusting himself off. "There's no need to apologise, John."

John struggled upright, yanking his underwear and trousers up. "Sherlock-"

"We should get out of here." Sherlock was flattening his hair, and smoothing his clothes, keeping his head down. "Knowing Moriarty, there's a bomb planted to go off if we're still in here within two minutes."

He moved to leave. John grabbed his sleeve, feeling a well of despair.

"_Sherlock_-"

Sherlock stopped and looked at him. His face was still a mess. "John, please," he said softly. "I don't want to talk about it."

John nodded, hardly able to contain his unhappiness. He looked away in the vain hope Sherlock wouldn't see it printed in bold on his features.

"John." Sherlock's tone was uncharacteristically gentle when he said his name.

John felt him touch his jaw and press a brief kiss to his cheek. John looked at him in surprise. Sherlock blushed and coughed and looked away.

"The point is... nothing's changed," he said gruffly. "Now, can we please get out of here?"

John nodded wordlessly, and followed him out into the blinding sunshine.

End


End file.
